


I'm here

by 200and21bees



Series: What doesn't kill you [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Caring John, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Flashbacks, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, POV John Watson, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Triggers, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2018-09-17 17:38:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9335417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/200and21bees/pseuds/200and21bees
Summary: It shouldn’t be able to reach him here, not where he was standing next to the warm fireplace, not in his home. But it did, and then it swept him off his feet.





	1. Snapping

 

 

Sherlock had known it was only a matter of time before he would lash out. He never knew when to stop. He had been walking on a floor filled broken glass the whole three months he'd been back, and he had been bound to reach the peak at some point.

 

And then he did. He called John invalid. Amongst other things. But it was cruel, it was completely wrong and Sherlock felt awful. Worse than ever before. He had known it was a bad day, the worst so far and yet he'd willingly picked on a fight that couldn't end well. And just as he was about to apologise – which would never be enough – John had turned and calmly walked out.

 

The cold grip of fear he hadn’t felt in a long while was suddenly back, unreasonably strong. It was a terrifyingly familiar panic, mostly from cold nights, the sounds of chains on concrete, from secret basements.

 

It shouldn’t be able to reach him here, not where he was standing next to the warm fireplace. Not in his home. But it did, and then it swept him off his feet with a searing pang of pain.

 

 

\---

 

 

John was absent-mindedly walking around - no particular destination in mind, just trying to burn off the adrenaline fuelling his anger - when his phone went off. He was half hoping, half dreading it was Sherlock. But it was Mycroft.

 

_Sherlock’s through with his panic attack, it’s safe for you to return to 221b._

_MH_

 

It wasn’t like Mycroft to let them know that he still kept spying their flat with cameras. John could sense Mycroft’s disapproval over John leaving, and also concern. The doctor didn’t hesitate and almost jogged the whole way back, silently berating himself and fighting the fear. Sherlock had had a panic attack? Mycroft thought John was needed there? What if something worse had happened? Not that Sherlock having a panic attack wasn’t bad enough.

 

As he climbed the stairs, John tried to listen for any signs of, well, anything. The flat was silent and as he entered the living room, he saw Sherlock laying on his back on the sofa, one hand almost touching the floor. He looked as if he was asleep, but taking a few steps closer, John noticed the detective had his eyes half open and his other hand that was laying on his stomach kept squeezing and releasing the material of his shirt.

 

Then he noticed the blood. The front of Sherlock's shirt was covered in light bloodstains. There was drops of it on the floor, on the corner of the coffee table, a bloody handprint on one of the autopsy reports on top of the table. There were bloody scratches on the arm that was hanging off the sofa, he had obviously been scratching his arm at some point, but most of the blood seemed to have come from cut on the corner of his right eyebrow. John hadn't been able to see it at first, because Sherlock's head was slightly turned to the back of the sofa, almost spreading blood there too. He must've fallen and hit his head on the coffee table.

 

This was bad, John realised. Sherlock didn't lose control of his body like that. He came to crouch in front of the sofa and called Sherlock's name.

 

"Sherlock, what happened? Can you hear me?"

 

He didn't touch him yet, not wanting to cause any more damage to the situation. Sherlock didn't respond vocally, but he turned his head slightly towards John and blinked rapidly.

 

"Sherlock, I'm going to get my kit and we're going to get you patched up, okay?" Sherlock just swallowed and finally made eye contact with John, though only for a second. His expression was mild, almost confused.

 

John got up and fetched the medical kit from the kitchen. He came back to crouching in front of the sofa and noticed Sherlock had closed his eyes and his right hand had started to tremble very minutely on his stomach.

 

"Sherlock? I'm here. I need to touch you to clean the blood off, is that okay?" Sherlock exhaled loudly and his trembling hand started to clamp down on the fabric aggressively. His head tipped back, exposing his throat for a while, eyes squeezed shut. He swallowed and then went completely slack.

 

John waited for a response, but when none came, he reached for Sherlock's arm. When Sherlock didn't react, he lifted it gently to rest on his knee. Then he started to clean the blood with a small wet towel and tend to the scratches with an alcohol swab, all the while watching Sherlock's face closely for any sign of distress. The tall man was completely limp apart from his eyes, which were rapidly moving underneath his eyelids. Mind palace then, John thought. He rarely went limp like that though, usually he just stayed in his deduction pose.

 

John rolled a loose gauze around the scratched arm and then moved up to tend to the cut on the corner of Sherlock's brow. It was still bleeding slightly and a small trickle of blood had rolled halfway down the side of the detective's head. After cleaning away most of it, John swept another disinfectant pad gently over the cut.

 

This time Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and grabbed at John's wrist blindly, eyes blinking wide and almost panicking.

 

"Hey, hey, it's just me. Did that sting?" This time Sherlock gave him a tiny nod and stared right at John. It was almost relieving to see him gaining consciousness again. He lifted the pad for Sherlock to see and said, "I need to clean your brow and check your pupils just to be sure, hang on there okay?"

 

Sherlock ran his hand up and down John's arm for a few times and then let go and nodded. The doctor went back to the task, still occasionally glancing back at Sherlock's face. He seemed to be calming down and actually smiled when John had trouble placing the plaster on the tricky curve of his brow. Then he dug out his phone and carefully pointed the flashlight at Sherlock’s eyes at a good distance, checking that he hadn’t hit his head more severely.

 

Plaster in place and wounds tended to, John sat back on his heels and just looked at Sherlock. He really had no idea what to do now, if he should ask or not. Why did this happen? Or how? Had it ever happened before?

 

Sherlock met his gaze, finally calm and present and looking only slightly apprehensive. The whole area around his right eye was slowly swelling but otherwise he seemed alright, not counting the arm. But John had to ask to be sure.

"Are there other injuries or just that eye?"

The brunet seemed to consider this for a second before gently shaking his head. Then he started to push himself up with his elbows, trying to get up, and John resisted the urge to stop him and let him sit up. Sherlock seemed to waver though and John stood up himself. "You can rest for a bit, in fact you should. I'll make us some tea, alright?"

 

Sherlock slumped back halfway, rolling to his side and curling on himself just a bit. It was almost like his usual sulking position but he was facing the room, and John wasn't that worried. He quickly fixed two cups and ventured back to the living room. "You should drink this while it's still -"

 

Sherlock clearly started at John's sudden appearance but he quickly tried to mask it as a small full-body stretch and sat up again. John made his way to the couch and sat down, offering Sherlock a cup and sipping from his own. The taller man was still tense, it showed in his movements and John wished that he knew what to do. They should definitely talk about this, he knew these things, but how could he -

"Yes, I've had them before." Sherlock cut through his thoughts. "I've had... episodes... like that before, but never here, not like that." Sherlock was staring intently at his cup, now very tense again. John wanted to calm him but he didn't know if contact would be welcome. "So, do you know why now?"

 

"Lack of sleep, malnutrition and a stressful situation." He listed dispassionately, like he was reading off a book, but he looked resigned. He sighed and took a glance at John. "Mostly the lack of sleep." Despite lacking Sherlock's skills, John had built quite a comprehensive understanding regarding Sherlock, and he could tell not sleeping wasn't about his 'not on a case' agenda or 'just transport' but something that happened involuntarily and it clearly bothered Sherlock. He decided to ask about it later.

 

As the brunet lifted the cup to take a sip, his right hand twitched and almost tipped the cup into his lap. He exhaled shakily and tried to support it with two hands.

 

An old memory from years ago flashed in front of John. He'd just gotten back to London, had rented that depressing small bedsit he hadn't even thought about in years now. Every morning, he would've made tea, dash of milk, and hadn't been able to drink it while warm for weeks in the beginning because his hands shook so much it was a wonder he hadn't dropped the whole mug.

 

Now, he abandoned his own tea and reached to help Sherlock. He laid a hand to the back on top of Sherlock's left one and steadied it enough. Sherlock's eyes were squeezed shut again, but he did accept the help and drank. As they lowered the cup and Sherlock let go of it for John to put it away, a tear managed to escape the corner of his eye. John had to offer some kind of comfort and laid his hand now on the detective's shoulder.

 

“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t.”

 

"I know. It's alright," John murmured, stroking his thumb back and forth, "it's all fine."

 

Sherlock fisted his hand to John's shirt and buried his head to his shoulder. He didn't exactly cry but his breath came in short, shaky huffs. John covered Sherlock's shaking hand with his own and then they just sat there. He had been upset by Sherlock’s outburst, he had said things that had been hurtful and unfair but John did believe that Sherlock hadn’t mean it. He had had a bad day, and now that John thought about it, probably a whole week of bad days. Sometimes it took all his willpower not to snap at Sherlock himself and call him things that weren’t true, but he’d never mean it.

 

It took Sherlock almost an hour to finally take a deep breath and disentangle himself from John. The doctor met his gaze and smiled reassuringly. Sherlock returned the smile but seemed exhausted, and John realised he had looked like that for a long time, probably ever since he came back. How had he not noticed how much darker the bags under the brunet’s eyes were nowadays? Then again he managed to forget many little things during those two years. Not a good train of thought.

 

Sherlock went to have a shower and John fixed them sandwiches. Sherlock ate his with only an irritated huff and then said he was off to bed. It was barely nine but John knew first-hand how draining those experiences could be and didn’t say anything. He slouched on the sofa, staying up watching telly for a bit longer than usual, just in case. He couldn’t help it; he even turned down the volume a bit more than necessary so he could hear Sherlock but nothing happened. Sherlock seemed to have really fallen asleep. Resisting the urge to go and check up on him, not wanting to accidentally wake him now, John finally gave up and headed to bed himself.


	2. Not now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe he can convince John he's fine. But deep down Sherlock knows it's just calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit short but this is just a kind of a bridge from one thing to another.

 

 

The next morning was peaceful. Sherlock was laying on the couch, apparently in his mind palace, as John came down. It had been Sherlock's violin that had woken him up at half past six, almost too early but not quite enough for John to really complain. He had abandoned the instrument in favour of his mind palace while John had taken a shower and gone upstairs again to change. So, thinking then.

 

John brought the detective tea and toast and then sat in his chair, still trying not to worry too much. As much as he had thought he knew Sherlock, this was something he had no idea how to go about. Was he supposed to pursue a conversation now or later or not at all?

 

As a doctor, he knew people should process serious stuff like that, but he truly didn't know how. He hadn't dealt with his own problems well at all and while he could try to detach himself from the situation and deal with it from a doctor's point of view, he knew it wouldn't work out. It was all too personal, Sherlock was his best friend.

 

In his usual mood, Sherlock would probably just dismiss him with an annoyed huff and start putting up his walls, and they'd just end up where they had started. And since Sherlock seemed to be getting back to himself now, John realised he should've tried yesterday.

 

But then again, he had never seen Sherlock like that. Well, maybe on the roof but that didn't count, not ever again. Sherlock hadn't exactly cried or spoken much at all but the look on his face and the way he had latched onto the contact with John, holding onto his clothes like that, was very unlike him. John wasn't sure how well he would've taken John prying into this thing at the moment, but he could've tried.

 

And now Sherlock seemed fine. He had returned from his mind palace and was silently munching on a slice of toast. Then he checked his phone before settling to the sofa again.

 

"Is there a case still on?" John just blurted out, the words spilling out without conscious thought. He didn't know if finishing the latest case or getting a new one would help or just make everything worse. Sherlock looked at him quizzically from the depths of the sofa cushions.

 

"Or an experiment? You spending time in your mind palace, the violin..." John shrugged, aiming for nonchalance, "It's just, I thought Lestrade might've texted you."

 

"No," Sherlock dragged out the word slightly, "no, he hasn't. Not yet anyway. I told him who to arrest this morning."

 

The detective got up and swiped the case files off the coffee table and took them with him to the kitchen. "Give it a few hours, maybe even a day. They'll be out of their depths again in no time."

 

John didn't answer as he stared at the coffee table. He had forgotten to clean the blood from the corner of it.

 

 

\--

 

 

Sherlock flopped himself onto one of the kitchen table and laid the files on top of a few petri dishes he'd forgotten to clean. He had said it was an experiment to stop John from complaining. Maybe he should just clean them off now. It wasn't like he was going back to his mind palace very soon.

 

He had organised most of the data to its proper place, the East wing was the last place left and he was not going there, not yet. He'd have to wait until Lestrade would give them a new case. He would drag it out and only when John would be sleeping off his exhaustion from running after him, the detective could safely clean up that part of his mind palace without risking the doctor noticing. He wasn't sure he could maintain that passive posture there, not anymore.

 

It had been a while since he'd caused a mess like that while in there. His mind palace had always served as not only a memory technique, but also as a defence mechanism. It had started at school and the teachers would shout at him for not paying attention. Much more recently, it had proved quite useful when trying to block out pain.

 

It wasn't always intentional, and during the final weeks of his absence (that's how they called it now) he had slipped there accidentally during interrogations and so missed quite a lot of vital information. It had been the reason he'd gotten caught without a back-up plan in the end. He suspected Mycroft knew, at least to an extent, or he wouldn't have bothered to help him out.

 

Yesterday had been an accident, he had panicked and collapsed completely. But the fact that he'd slipped there again when John had been there was frightening. He had been about to say something, tell John. Beg for help. But then his mind had panicked and he'd been left there, stranded in one of the large halls. He had wailed and fought and torn down shelves, but he didn't know why. What was so scary about John that he'd need to escape? He hadn't been in danger yet there he was, rattling doors in his mind and trying to return.

 

It was yet another thing he hated about himself. He hadn't talked to Mycroft, not that his brother would care since they hadn't even spoken after Sherlock had moved back to Baker Street, and now he couldn't talk to John. He hated it, he hated himself and that bloody mission, but he couldn't touch John's room in his mind palace, not even when he was seething with rage and fear. It was the only good thing left there.

 

But he couldn't think about it now, not one second of it. He needed to do something, occupy his mind. He had managed to rest well enough last night, the memory of John's face looking down at him had been enough to stop the worst nightmares, and now he'd get one good meal and be done with it for now, just like he had been back then. _Not now_.

 

"What?" John called from the living room. Sherlock hadn't meant to say it out loud.

 

"Nothing, just thinking about this file here."

 

Sherlock shook his head and piled the petri dishes from the table. He would need them if he wanted to solve one of the cold cases. He could only hope Lestade would have something decently interesting to offer and soon. He needed distraction, otherwise he'd be caught in memories all day.

 

He glanced at the folder, which now had a bloody handprint on it and decided to cause some kind of mess in the kitchen, just for normalcy's sake. Maybe in the microwave. And maybe he could use all the milk too while at it. _Just keep yourself  - and John - busy_.


	3. A chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the detective fisted his still violently shaking hands into John's coat and buried his head to his shoulder, much like that first time in their living room.

But it took Lestrade almost a week, and by then Sherlock was running out of patience. He'd tried not to snap at people any more than he would during his usual black moods, but judging by the way John kept checking the website and his blog for potential cases - no such luck - he had managed to worry the doctor to an extent. Sherlock had noticed the doctor had also gone through his sock index, but this time he decided to pretend he hadn’t noticed. He didn’t want to deal with that kind of conversations. Not now. Maybe even never again.

 

As promised, he'd started with contaminating the microwave. John had complained about it for a few days, but Sherlock ignored him in favour of kipping on the sofa, pretending to be in his mind palace while actually only laid there, trying not to think.

 

Then he had fetched a few skin samples and left them in the fridge without a lid. John had actually shouted and thrown them away, so that left Sherlock without experiments and nothing to distract himself or John. He couldn't annoy the doctor any more or he'd just get too angry or concerned, and that was never good, especially now that his trust was still fragile and Sherlock didn’t know where their boundaries were set. A lot had changed after two years of lying and Sherlock was still learning John again. Not now, he scolded himself for the hundredth time. Not a good train of thought.

 

But then Lestrade had finally offered him a case. Snapped necks, no suspects and a missing half of a liver. Even though most of it was too obvious to really catch his interest – the liver for example was just an attempt to make it look like an organ trafficking gone wrong – they had trouble finding suspects. Sherlock didn't even need to draw it out at that point, every suspect they interviewed or followed seemed to have an alibi that he couldn't prove wrong.

 

But two days and only a few hour-long naps later he finally found something promising. He could easily wear John down by chasing the wrong suspect first, and then finish it off with a good long chase around London. That would surely buy him enough time to fix his rotting brain without John noticing, he reasoned as he dragged the doctor out of the flat.

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

There was a chase. They had been following a suspect who then decided to bolt. They charged after her - surprisingly even Sherlock had been going after the wrong people at first, assuming the murderer was male - and just as John thought they would reach her, she stopped short and took a full 180 degree turn, now wielding a knife she had apparently been carrying with her.

 

Sherlock of course ducked back from the first slash, not getting hurt. But as John was about to take the final spurt to tackle and disarm her, Sherlock swung forward, hitting her diaphragm and knocking all the air out before aiming a kick at her hand still holding the knife. It all happened very quickly, John noticed. Even Sherlock usually took time to consider the whole scene instead of just attacking.

 

John reached them and managed to get himself between Sherlock and the now gasping murderer just when Sherlock straightened from where he'd lurched for the now free weapon, apparently ready to strike and already gaining momentum.

 

He looked wild and panicked, well beyond any previous close contact situation they'd been in. But he recognised John, confusion overpowering everything else. His forward strike halted like a car running into a concrete wall and he stepped back, once, twice, before just blindly stumbling backwards against the cold brick wall of the alley. He slumped down on the ground, still panting and staring at John. A strong tremor shook his right hand and the knife dropped from his grasp. His other hand pushed against the asphalt and twisted in a way John knew would break the skin soon.

 

The doctor made sure the suspect wasn't going anywhere – zip ties, carrying them around had been Sherlock's idea after John told him not to steal from Greg again – and then approached Sherlock, trying not to look hesitant or afraid in any way. Not that he was feeling that way, he was merely concerned, but Sherlock had said – well, implied more like – before that he couldn't stand hurting or threatening to hurt John accidentally.

 

"Sherlock,” John said calmly, trying to get his attention. “Are you alright?"

 

The brunet just shook his head against the wall, turned it to the side and swallowed, still grinding his hand against the ground.

 

"Okay, how about you give me that knife then?" John extended his hand, and after a few seconds Sherlock picked the weapon up, carefully closed the blade even though his hands were shaking, and then gave it to John. The doctor immediately threw it away and then sat down next to Sherlock. After taking his pulse – at least 120 bpm still – and urging him to lift his hand from the ground, he didn't do anything else for a while, letting Sherlock choose.

 

Finally, the detective fisted his still violently shaking hands into John's coat and buried his head to his shoulder, much like that first time in their living room. John put his hands to Sherlock's shoulders, then ran them down his upper back and up to his neck in soothing circles. After a while, he could feel Sherlock's breathing calm down and decided they were ready to go home soon.

 

"Now,” he started softly, “what we are going to do is that I'll text Lestrade, we'll wait for him, and then get home."

 

Sherlock nodded against John's shoulder and started to retreat. John felt his right hand spasm with a strong tremor again and tightened his own hold with one hand, signalling Sherlock that he could stay like that.

 

He dug out his phone, checked their location and clumsily tapped out a text. It only took Lestrade about five minutes – Sherlock must've hinted him about their stakeout location beforehand – but John managed to get them both to look relatively presentable before the cars arrived and they left the scene without further ado.

 

A quiet cab ride later they got up the stairs, John keeping his hand on Sherlock's lower back the whole climb up, and Sherlock literally collapsed. He took his coat off and reached to hang it and suddenly doubled over. John was next to him in an instant and touched his shoulder.

 

"Sherlock?" The detective just pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and shook. John grabbed his shoulder and spoke louder but still calmly. "Sherlock. Do you hear me? Just lay down, get on the sofa for me."

 

Sherlock seemed to hear but kept his eyes closed. He supported himself against John as they walked to the sofa. He laid down on the same position as before, on his back with his hands crumpling his shirt. He squirmed and curled his knees, his breathing loud and strained.

 

"Listen to me, Sherlock, okay?" John kneeled beside him but didn't try to touch him yet. "Just breathe," he instructed, his tone doctorly and as calming as he could make it. Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed tighter but turned to listen to John's voice.

 

"You're okay, we're both okay. Now, breathe." Sherlock drew in a shallow breath, then another when John kept encouraging him. After five minutes or so he was breathing steadily, if still a bit too fast. John reached out a hand and landed it on top of Sherlock's, not too heavy to cause any panic but solid enough for him to recognise.

 

Finally, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and opened his eyes, meeting his gaze. They locked eyes for a second and then the detective deflated fully and breathed out shakily. John opened his mouth, but Sherlock cut him short.

 

“Don’t say anything just yet, please. I don’t want to go.” John frowned at the plea but kept his mouth shut. They spent a few minutes like that, Sherlock squeezing John’s hand and just breathing before John pulled away and stoop up. “I’ll fetch some disinfectant and gauze for your palm, okay?”

 

As John wrapped up the scratched palm, he noticed faint scratches around the detective’s wrists too, but since Sherlock was calming down and breathing normally he decided not to bring it up yet. He placed the hand back on Sherlock’s stomach and sat down on the floor, waiting for Sherlock to initiate whatever he wanted to initiate.

 

After a while Sherlock started to fidget again. He groaned and turned to curl on his side, facing John. Neither said anything for a long time, and John was just about to get up when a hand shot out to grab his arm. “John.”

 

The doctor sat back. “Sherlock. What happened? What is going on?”

 

“I...” Sherlock rubbed his face. “I had a… flashback,” he said, looking at his hands. Then his eyes squeezed shut and he curled tighter into himself.

 

“A flashback?” John furrowed his brow. He knew flashbacks could be a very serious problem as he’d had them too, and he didn’t even know why Sherlock would have them.

 

John knew their line of work was dangerous but neither of them had had any traumatic experiences. Sherlock seemed to enjoy the adrenaline just as much as John did, and he didn’t seem to get scared easily. The closest had been the Baskerville experience, but Sherlock hadn’t shown signs of anxiety after they got back.

 

“What kind of a flashback?”

 

Sherlock just shook his head and turned his face to the sofa cushion. “Tea. Could you… Tea first.”

 

John reached a hand to his shoulder as he got up. “Of course, I’ll be right back.”

 

He made his way to the kitchen and hummed as he made tea. He wasn’t the humming type, but maybe it would help Sherlock if he could hear him. He put the teabags ready while the water warmed and then decided to put some honey into it too. If nothing else, Sherlock would get some calories as they’d barely eaten and slept during the case.

 

John remembered Sherlock admit the previous incident had been triggered by insufficient sleep and nutrition. Could it be possible something had happened after each case that was longer than a few hours? Sherlock rarely took care of himself during them, so it was possible. And since he retreated to his bedroom to catch on his sleep, John wouldn’t even know if something happened.

 

When the water had boiled, John poured it into the cups and let the tea brew while he looked for some biscuits or other light food. Sherlock would need a proper meal and a night’s sleep, but right now they’d need to talk.

 

He brought the teacups and a few digestives he’d found to the living room where Sherlock was still curled up, but now in a sitting position. John decided not to fret about personal space and sat right next to him, leaving the cups on the coffee table.

 

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Sherlock reached for his mug. He sipped slowly and then looked at John. “If you want us to eat why didn’t you just order food right away?”

 

“I think you know why,” John answered, turning to looked at him and decided to go straight to the point. “What triggered that flashback?” He kept his voice gentle and reached for his own cup.

 

“It was a similar situation… I was following someone and had to engage in close combat.” John couldn’t recall any case like that but before he could ask Sherlock continued in a small voice. “It was when I was away. I was in Poland, and now I keep going back-”

 

His voice got more strained and John put a hand on his shoulder immediately. “Sherlock, you’re here. You came back here,” he tried to calm him down. Sherlock did turn to look at him, watching his face raptly as if he was deducing something. And maybe he was, but it seemed to help so John kept his face as open as he could.

 

Soon the detective coughed and looked away, fussing with his cup. “I don’t mean for it to happen, I begun to use my mind palace as a distraction there to stop it and now I can’t control it anymore.” He seemed ashamed and tried to curl in on himself again. John lowered his cup and turned fully to face him.

 

“Sherlock, it’s not your fault.” He tugged on Sherlock’s arm to uncoil him. “I want to help you and I’m willing to wait for you to tell me what I can do.”

 

Sherlock opened up to the touch and let John tug him closer. John sighed and pulled him right into a hug, leaving his cup on the table to sneak his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. The detective practically melted into John’s arms, his arms limp on his own lap but his forehead leaning on John’s shoulder. Neither said anything, Sherlock just breathed. Then he lifted one hand and touched John’s shoulder, his hand trembling. John didn’t say anything, just pulled him closer still and started stroking Sherlock’s back and shoulder slowly with one hand, keeping the other firm in the middle of his back.

 

Soon, the taller man buried his face more firmly on John’s shoulder and lifted another shaky hand to his back, properly hugging him back.

 

Nothing happened for a while. John kept moving his hand and Sherlock drew a few shaky breaths. Then, very slowly, he started to stroke his thumbs against John’s jumper. After a few minutes, John noticed the dampness on his shoulder and realised Sherlock was crying silently, his face buried in John’s jumper. John breather deeply and wrapped his hands more firmly around Sherlock, tugging the man into his lap when Sherlock started to shake with silent sobs. Sherlock settled onto John’s lap, straddling the doctor’s thighs as he cried. He was muffling his harsh breaths and sobs into John’s jumper, wetting the material but John didn’t mind at all, all he could do was worry about Sherlock.

 

Sherlock didn’t show any signs of calming down, instead his sobs only grew louder. When the whimpering and trembling began, John started to mutter soft words into his hair, rocking them both slowly from one side to the other. It was nothing like John had witnessed. He had seen panic attacks, he had experienced them himself, but he had never seen a reaction like this afterwards. He kept holding Sherlock, trying to calm him down with his voice, but for a long while it didn’t seem to have much effect.

 

It was only hours later when Sherlock finally started to breathe deeply enough to calm down, his face blotchy and his eyes red-rimmed and raw. He seemed to be exhausted, barely able to haul himself off of John before he went limp. John got him water and some eyedrops before he helped the detective to change into his pyjama bottoms, removing his button-up but leaving the undershirt on, and then into bed.

 

Just as he was about to head back to the kitchen, Sherlock opened his eyes and called his name quietly.

 

“Yes?” John turned to look at him, only the bedside lamp offering light in the otherwise dim room. He could see Sherlock’s face clearly enough to tell that the detective was seconds away from falling asleep.

 

“Stay the night?” He asked, sounding so unsure and unlike himself that John couldn’t think of a single reason to object. “Of course, I’ll just change into my sleeping gear and I’ll be right back.” Sherlock just nodded slowly, and when John returned from his room he was sure the detective had fallen asleep, he had looked so exhausted.

 

Instead, he had propped himself up on his elbows, and his gaze turned to John as soon as the doctor entered the room. It was surprising, but when John saw the relief on Sherlock’s face when the doctor climbed onto the bed and settled down, he realised Sherlock hadn’t been completely sure John would really stay.

 

Now desperate to offer Sherlock the help and comforting the man needed, John reached over the mattress and tugged Sherlock closer, hugging him loosely. He was prepared to help Sherlock through a long night, but the detective hugged back for only a few seconds before falling asleep. John waited for a while but when it seemed that Sherlock was deeply asleep, John relaxed and allowed himself to sleep too.

 

 


	4. Slowing down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John decided to just nod and get up instead of prying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is almost a cheerful chapter(?) I've been listening to too much happy songs.  
> Oh well, there's angst coming soon, so hang in there.

 

 

"Goodbye, Sherlock." He could only watch as John spread his arms and stepped over the line. A millisecond before the doctor’s bones would be crushed on the pavement, Sherlock jerked awake, drenched in sweat. He stared into the darkness, unseeing and deaf to the world. Something felt different. He wasn’t shivering from the cold night air, and instead of the damp coldness of a filthy mattress and a ragged sheet, there was a softness and a comfortable duvet. He closed his eyes and berated his brain for going _there_ again. He was home, period.

 

Home, where the nightmares had left him alone, until now. Home, where memories of those filthy nights shouldn’t be.

 

But still, there was something else to it. He was warm, much warmer than he should’ve been. Not suffocating, not feverish, just… warm. Then the mattress started shifting, and Sherlock suddenly remembered. He tried not to freeze completely as John propped himself up on one elbow, looking at Sherlock sleepily. No doubt he’d woken the blond with his useless trashing.

 

“Sh’lock?” John mumbled softly and Sherlock released a breath he hadn’t been holding. “Everything alright?”

 

Sherlock just nodded, confident that John could see the gesture, and let himself relax as much as he could. John laid back, now on his side as he kept an eye on Sherlock. The detective turned his head towards him and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the fact that he was safe, that John kept a vigil over him. He wanted to thank John, to let him know his efforts might be helping after all but he couldn’t open his mouth, not now. If he let it out, god knows what else might escape.

 

So Sherlock slowed down his breathing and tried to ignore the fact that the nightmares were back. John fell asleep after twenty minutes and Sherlock listened to his slow breathing until he drifted off as well, uneasy consciousness giving way to uneasy sleep.

 

 

\---

 

 

John woke up to Sherlock shifting, clearly uncomfortable. He didn’t move or speak, just laid there and watched Sherlock as the man huffed in his sleep and rolled over again, hugging himself in his sleep. John remembered waking up in the middle of the night as well, but he had no idea when Sherlock had fallen back asleep. He had clearly been awake when John had fallen asleep.

 

He wanted to reach out and try to wake Sherlock up, but he knew from experience that it might not be the best idea. And he wasn’t sure what would be a good idea at the moment. Actually, he didn’t have any ideas at all.

 

But when Sherlock started to shiver, face pinched into a frown, he had to do something. He sat up and called Sherlock’s name firmly a few times. After the third time, he detective huffed a breath and opened his eyes just a fraction. He blinked a few times and his eyes moved from the bedsheets to the rest of the room and to John looming over him.

 

He sighed and relaxed fractionally after a while, closing his eyes and loosening his arms from where he’d been gripping his ribs tightly. John didn’t know whether to bring up why he’d woken Sherlock up or not, but the detective took the decision away from him.

 

“I’m fine, it was probably just residues from yesterday, whatever it was that I did,” he said, sounding tired but more like himself than he had yesterday. John decided to just nod and get up instead of prying.

 

“What do you want for breakfast?” he asked Sherlock, tugging his pyjamas up a little. He wasn’t sure what kind of a reaction to expect, given that this was a situation he had never found himself before. But Sherlock just shrugged and told him to just make something, looking both resigned and still a little like he was in pain, and John didn’t know what to think.

 

After quickly brushing his teeth, John went to the kitchen and put the kettle on before getting a pan and making scrambled eggs. They hadn’t eaten yesterday after all, and John made a mental note to get some takeaway for lunch.

 

He was just getting the toasts out of the toasted when Sherlock emerged, now wearing a robe on top of his pyjamas. He sat down at the table and accepted his plate with a mix of a nod and an eyeroll at the generous size of the portion, now much more like himself.

 

He let John make him no less than three honeyed cups of tea. But since he hadn’t eaten much at all during the latest case John didn’t worry. He had always stocked up a little after a case. Instead, he consulted his phone and let Sherlock know that the suspect they had caught for Lestrade had confessed at the NSY. Sherlock pointed out that running away from the police was a confession on its own, and John chuckled into his toast.

 

When he had taken the dishes away, John turned to Sherlock and asked if he wanted to do something today. Instead of the eyeroll he was expecting, Sherlock blinked a few times and glanced down.

 

“I think it would be… wise, to take a few days off of everything,” he started reluctantly. “We could just watch telly, maybe one of those shows you like.”

 

“Promise not to deduce the plot?” John asked with a soft smile as he walked to the media stand.

 

“You’ve already seen all of them a dozen times,” Sherlock hummed, granting John a small smile and a nod as the doctor lifted a box of Doctor Who questioningly for him to see.

 

They both sat down on the sofa and John got the first series started. Sherlock was quieter than usual, but after a while he started his commentary on the cliché plot, characters and obvious mistakes. John laughed at a few of them and scowled playfully at the rest, noticing the way Sherlock started to relax. After changing the disc for the third time, John glanced at his watch and suggested they ordered something. Sherlock nodded a bit, hugging his knees as he watched John place an order at the nearest Chinese. Then they sat down and watched nearly half of the next episode before the doorbell rang.

 

John asked Sherlock to heat up the tea again as he went down to get the food. But Sherlock only replied with a distracted huff, and so John paid and carried the food to the living room before heating up the tea himself and pouring them two cups. Then he took them and two forks to the living room, getting comfortable again as Sherlock pressed play.

 

They ate silently, and after John had taken the empty tubs to the kitchen they went back to bickering playfully about the awful special effects and poor camera shifting. After a while though, Sherlock started to get quieter, just watching the screen as he fiddled with the empty teacup.

 

“More tea?” John asked, getting his own cup and standing up. Sherlock wordlessly gave him the cup, and with fresh cups of tea they finished the first series in still-quite comfortable silence. But a few episodes into the next season, Sherlock seemed to get a little bored and fidgety.

 

Deciding that nine o’clock wasn’t too early to head to bed, John turned off the tv and made them a pair of light sandwiches as an evening snack. Sherlock scoffed a little but ate his with a good helping of mild chamomile tea that John found from the back of a cupboard.

 

John considered offering to stay with Sherlock tonight as well, but Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom right after brushing his teeth. He did, however, knock on the door and peek his head in just enough to wish him good night.

 

 

\---

 

 

The next day was spent in similar fashion. John woke up quite early and made breakfast. He was writing up their latest case – leaving out the last bit of course – when Sherlock appeared. The detective grumbled but ate his portion and then turned to make himself a cup of coffee when John saved the draft, unsure if he should even post it. He didn’t say anything, but watched silently as Sherlock poured the water and then measured the grounds.

 

It was clear that the detective hadn’t slept last night, not enough at least. They rarely drank coffee outside of cases, Sherlock usually drank whole month’s worth of caffeine during tough cases when he had to stay up for long periods, and after solving the case he’d stick to tea while catching up on his sleeping. Now, here the detective was, quietly making coffee after having a slow day yesterday and going to bed quite early. John had stayed up for a while, secretly worrying about Sherlock, but even he had still slept for well over eight hours.

 

But why he had decided to be this obvious about it, making coffee and blinking slowly, was beyond John’s detective skills. John tried to look for signs that could tell him if Sherlock had been kept up by nightmares or something else, but all he could say for sure was that Sherlock hadn’t slept and that if he kept staring at Sherlock, the man would most likely just recoil and put up his walls again.

 

So John kept his observations to himself, instead yawning and asking Sherlock to make a cup for John as well. Sherlock narrowed his eyes a little at him, but added grounds and water for John. Neither said a thing while the coffee brewed but when they both had their cups, there seemed to be a silent agreement to head into the living room and continue watching Doctor Who from where they’d left it yesterday.

 

From there they ventured into reality shows that Sherlock couldn’t bear for more than an hour, and so John suggested a Bond movie. They had watched them together before, when it had turned out that Sherlock had never seen them, and John hadn’t watched a single one since, not even the new ones.

 

Sherlock obviously deduced it, and agreed before admitting he was rather hungry. John ordered Chinese again and they ate while the movie went on. Sherlock was much quieter but he didn’t seem uncomfortable, and when he noticed John looking at him he actually scoffed and shook his curls.

 

“I’m fine, I’d just rather not have you whining about me ruining the movies for you by pointing out every fault, like you did last time,” he muttered, trying to sound bored but John couldn’t help but find it almost sweet. He giggled a bit and turned to the tv, pointing out a mistake even he could notice, and soon they were playfully bickering about odd tan-lines and impossible stunts.

 

When the movie ended, John stretched languidly and yawned.

 

“I have to admit I’d rather listen to you ruin my movies than watch them alone again,” he said, frowning at himself slightly before nodding decisively. “That sounds soppy and sad but it’s true.”

 

Sherlock just huffed softly and watched him quietly.

 

“I… Well, good night,” John muttered, getting up and looking at the dark tv screen. Before he could open his mouth and ask whatever it was he wanted to ask, Sherlock got up as well and walked past him, almost brushing his arm but not quite.

 

“Good night,” he echoed and disappeared into the bathroom. John tidied up the living room a little antsily while he waited for his turn to brush his teeth. He wasn’t sure why but he felt a little restless, like there was something he should do but he just didn’t know what or how. Well, he did know what, and roughly how. The doctor and friend in him desperately wanted to help Sherlock but something made him hesitate, took his courage away at the last second.

 

So he only nodded at Sherlock as the detective exited the bathroom. He tried to listen for any odd sounds coming from the bedroom as he brushed his teeth, and then he knocked on the door to wish Sherlock good night.

 

And as he woke up in the middle of the night to the sounds of the violin, he debated going down for a long while until the sounds ceased and John almost cursed aloud at his hesitance. The sun was about to rise though the city was still relatively quiet as John rolled over for the hundredth time before getting up with a huff.

 

Sherlock was laying on the sofa, curled on a ball. Neither commented on anything as John put on the kettle and quickly brushed his teeth. Sherlock got up and accepted the plain toast and sweetened cup of tea and the ate slowly in an almost-comfortable silence.

 

“I’m bored,” Sherlock announced after he’d brushed the crumbs off his t-shirt. He lounged on the chair and dug out his phone. “Lestrade doesn’t have anything interesting to offer, but there are a few less dull inquires in your inbox.”

 

John huffed, a little amused and a little chiding. “Stop hacking my email, Sherlock.”

 

“It’s not hacking, I know the password,” Sherlock quipped, getting to his feet and stretching a little. John swallowed his argument and sniffed instead.

 

“So, last night… You were just bored, nothing else?”

 

Sherlock looked at him, pocketing his phone and sighing. “Yes, I am fine, like I keep telling you.”

 

He seemed better this morning than he’d done yesterday, even though it was quite early and John might’ve just been too tired to notice everything as well as usually. John got himself another cuppa and settled on his chair to browse the online news while Sherlock stood at the desk and tapped away on John’s – no surprise there – laptop.

 

When he was finished, he snapped the lid closed and glanced at John. “You should probably shower, we’ll meet the client in East London in a few hours.”

 

John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock had already disappeared into his bedroom and the doctor shook his head and climbed into his bedroom to fetch fresh clothes instead. At least the detective seemed much more like himself now, and it seemed that Sherlock had dealt with whatever it was that had caused him to panic on his own. John couldn’t help the guilty feeling that nagged him still, and as he watched Sherlock bounce his leg in mild enthusiasm during the cab ride he swore to himself that if Sherlock seemed to get worse again, he’d open his stupid mouth and help the man instead of just hovering over him uselessly.

 

 

 


	5. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I need help, John,” he mumbled into the soft material of John’s jumper. “I can’t- I have to talk about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I've finally added the final chapter count. The last chapter is still in the making, but I'm finally finishing this!

 

 

Sherlock hadn’t lied when he’d said he was bored. Of course he’d get bored after two days of nothing but mindless tv shows and nothing to do. It wasn’t like he’d suddenly turned into someone else entirely. But still, he could feel the doubt – what if he _had_ changed? – and so he was relieved to feel the usual excitement as they approached the client’s house.

 

But he was also terrified. The filth was seeping through. It was one thing to get swept away during an actual chase, but another entirely for that to happen while watching a movie. There had been a lot of guns in that movie they’d watched, and Sherlock knew now that wouldn’t be able to look at guns without remembering another gun held by another pair of hands, aimed at him. Not even if it was John’s gun, in John’s hand. Not aimed at him, never at him. He tried to shake off that thought. It persisted.

 

Luckily solving the case only consisted of a lot of thinking and no running after criminals or guns.  There was no murders, just a hacker and some blackmailing.

 

John was clearly bored by the time Sherlock had gone through the data provided by the client, when he had realised there was nothing he could do to help. Sherlock knew that it always made the shorter man a little insecure, since Sherlock enjoyed being occupied like this but John had no part in it.

 

And that would be a problem, he realised. If he couldn’t work properly on the cases that fit John the best… The doctor would definitely get bored if every case was like this. He would get more hours at the clinic to occupy his time, and most likely start dating again.

 

Not that Sherlock had anything against that. He was actually surprised John had stopped dating, he had been doing it a lot before Sherlock jumped. But it did involve a risk, John might find someone serious, and after two years of letting him think Sherlock was dead, John might prefer someone he could trust. Actually, he _deserved_ someone he could trust. For a few years, Sherlock wanted to believe it was him but he had broken John trust eventually and now, he couldn’t even trust himself. It was only a matter of time until John realised that.

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

John had to admit, the case was quite boring. Or at least to him, Sherlock seemed to get quite a lot out of it. John fetched coffee for the detective, leafed through a few binders full of bank account data and then just wandered around, looking at the shelfs and paintings.

 

Eventually Sherlock solved the case, but he seemed hesitant to hunt down the culprit. The client assured them she’d find them after Sherlock gave her enough advice on how to do it, and they headed home. John insisted they get takeaway on the way home since it was already late afternoon and they’d only had coffee to drink.

 

So, they spent the evening eating Chinese again, and Sherlock kept commenting at the tv. John smiled and wrote the case up quickly, finding it interesting enough. Sherlock glanced at it and scoffed, but didn’t make any more comments on it. Instead, he dug his phone out and after a while announced that they had a case for tomorrow as well. John looked at him but didn’t protest. If Sherlock wanted to work and found cases he deemed suitable, it would be only good for both of them.

 

So, the next day they took a cab to see another client with an interesting but mostly action-less case. Sure, John ran around the archives, fetching folders and crates and stacks of paper whenever Sherlock needed them, but it was a little brain-numbing. He muddled through, since Sherlock seemed to enjoy himself. They’d sort his problems out and then get back to the more action-based adventures, John was sure of that.

 

The next day they were out and solving another slow case – as John called them – when Lestrade called. John tried to keep up when Sherlock questioned about the details while simultaneously explaining to their current client how exactly his firm had been robbed.

 

Then they were heading to the Yard to see Lestrade, since Sherlock seemed to accept the case. It was a murder, but they had already figured out the murderer’s identity. Now they only had to find the murderer, who “had vanished into thin air,” according to Lestrade. Sherlock scoffed at him upon hearing this and then looked at the file they had on the killer.

 

They spent the rest of the day at the Yard and Sherlock would’ve stayed the night, but John insisted they go home for the night. He looked at Sherlock sternly, but he didn’t have to argue more until the detective sighed and agreed to leave.

 

John didn’t stay up and monitor Sherlock’s sleep exactly, but he made sure Sherlock went to his bedroom after a light snack and a shower. He was quite sure Sherlock would only sulk and stay up the whole night, but at least he’d take a break. The last few days had been good, and John could feel the anxious knot in his chest loosen up a little. They’d figure this out, day by day if they had to. John was still holding out hope that Sherlock would talk to him, but since he seemed to be alright now he decided he’d press the matter later.

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

Sherlock had clearly spent a good portion of the night thinking, since the minute they arrived at the Yard, Sherlock just told Lestrade to contact a few people and announced he and John would find the man on foot.

 

Despite John’s protests, they end up running around London, following leads Sherlock got from his homeless network. Despite having committed a murder, the killer was apparently still moving around London. Sherlock checked the last text he’d gotten and led John into the underground. They travelled a few stops to one direction, then changed the lines and again left after a few stops as Sherlock scanned the crowds.

 

The third train turned out a disaster. They had only just gotten into it when Sherlock went stock still before rapidly retreating backwards towards the exit and into John who was standing behind him. The doors slid shut and the train started moving, but Sherlock didn’t seem to pay attention anymore.

 

"What's wrong, Sherlock? Sherlock!"

 

The man nearly fell on John, one of his hands gripping the closest handle and the other clamping down on John's sleeve. His legs seemed to be giving in and he stared into the crowd. John moved his free arm around Sherlock to hold him up, now very close to being scared. The tube was slightly crowded, so no one was paying attention to them.

 

"Out." Sherlock shook his head minutely from side to side and John noticed his eyes were now squeezed shut. "Get out. Out, out," he kept muttering and then repeated the same word - at least John thought so - in a different language, something related to Russian if John had to guess. He squeezed his arm around Sherlock and leaned towards him ever so slightly.

 

"Okay, okay, I'm here. We'll get off in the next stop, yeah?" Sherlock just kept rocking his head in small movements, still holding John's sleeve. He started to mutter other things, none of it making any sense to John.

 

They got off and John guided Sherlock through the station by holding his hand, and the brunet wouldn't let go of his coat. His eyes were open now, but John could see that he wasn't really seeing anything. Luckily, he soon found a quiet spot with a bench and helped Sherlock sit down. The detective all but collapsed on the seat, his breathing with mere gasps now, and John crouched in from of him.

 

"Sherlock, listen to me. I need you to breathe." He could tell that Sherlock was having a panic attack and he needed to help. He held Sherlock upright until the detective looked at him, still only taking quick gasps of air. He was scraping his nails over the back of his right hand, already drawing blood before John noticed. He tried to get him to stop, but Sherlock seemed to get more distressed when John tried to hold his hands apart, squeezing John’s hand painfully as he kept gasping desperately.

 

“Breathe, Sherlock,” John repeated, letting Sherlock cling to his hands. He repeated the words still a few times and finally Sherlock took a deeper breath, slumping against John as he panted.

 

“Home,” he pleaded when he got his breath back enough to speak. He loosened his hold and let out a sound almost like a sob. “Please, home.”

 

John nodded and hugged him gently before standing up and wrapping one arm around Sherlock’s waist, supporting him on the way up to the street level. He got a cab and helped Sherlock in it.

 

Luckily, they had been drifting closer to Baker Street on their hunt and the cab ride only took fifteen minutes.

 

But by that time, Sherlock was already breathing heavily again. His eyes were squeezed close and he was kneading the material of his trousers as he squirmed slightly. John got his attention and helped him out and into their flat, immediately sitting him down on the sofa. He took their coats and then sat next to Sherlock, watching him.

 

“Sherlock, what happened?” he questioned gently, laying a hand on his thigh. Sherlock just shook his head and squirmed again as if in pain. John could hear himself make a sympathetic noise as he pulled Sherlock into his arms, holding him tightly enough to be grounding but not too much to cause panic, at least he hoped so.

 

Sherlock shuddered and held onto John’s shirt, huffing quick breaths against his shoulder. He didn’t seem to be calming down, so John pulled back a little, looking him over. Sherlock had a thin layer of sweat on his forehead and John decided to help him out of his suit jacket and shoes, partly to help him to cool down and to get the most uncomfortable clothing out of the way.

 

Sherlock didn’t fight back, but he didn’t make a move to help John either, seemingly oblivious to the doctor’s presence. He pulled his knees up and curled on one end of the sofa, still wringing and scratching his hands, occasionally bringing them to his mouth and biting down on his fingers to muffle his noises.

 

John tried to get his attention, talking to him softly and then tentatively touching his shoulder, but Sherlock only shuddered. John thought quickly and dug out his phone, typing up a message while he kept his eyes on Sherlock, still muttering quietly in case it would help the detective somehow.

 

 

_Mycroft, is there anything you wish to tell me about Sherlock? JW_

The reply came in less than a minute.

 

 

**What's wrong?**

**-MH**

 

 

_He's currently having his third full-blown panic attack in two weeks. JW_

 

_What the hell did you make him do when he was gone? JW_

 

 

John’s phone started ringing only a few seconds after he sent the last message. He considered for a second, but then got up and lifted the phone to his ear, still watching Sherlock.

 

“Mycroft?”

 

“Sherlock spent quite a long time in Eastern Europe, dealing with various sorts of criminals. We kept an eye on him all the time, but we lost track of him for sixteen days in Serbia. He assured nothing happened,” Mycroft said quickly, and John could only scoff quietly.

 

“Sherlock assured you? Don’t you know him at all?”

 

A long, wailing but very quiet cry demanded John's full attention. He turned around, cut the call and dropped the phone on Sherlock's chair as the detective then started to hum. It wasn’t a song, at least it didn't sound like music. It was just small noise, raising and lowering and desperate, almost sobbing.

 

John wanted to touch him, to bring him back to that moment where he was curled up on the sofa; he could tell Sherlock was somewhere else then. At least he had stopped biting his fingers, hands clutching at his arms instead.

 

Remembering how he had managed to damage his hands on the tube station and once before that, John quickly fetched the first garment he could find – Sherlock’s scarf – and very carefully got the detective to take it instead. As he was clawing and pulling at the material, the brunet started to mutter again. John still couldn’t make any sense of it, but he hummed and added small words in between Sherlock’s mumblings, trying to get Sherlock back to the moment.

 

At some point, Sherlock started shivering, no doubt exhausted. John estimated that it had been at least three hours since the initial tube incident, and he watched helplessly as Sherlock’s words slowed down until he was merely breathing heavily again. Confident that he wouldn’t cause any harm by now, John sat down on the sofa next to him and pulled him closer so that his upper body was nestled in John’s arms.

 

It took a few more minutes of softly murmured words until Sherlock breathed out shakily.

 

“John?” he breathed out, and as John hummed in affirmation the detective nuzzled John’s jumper slowly before going limp against him.

 

They didn’t move for a long while. John brushed Sherlock’s almost-damp fringe off his forehead slowly and then just held him there, his mind buzzing with worry and questions. What had happened in the tube? Had it been the crowd, or something else? Which things did this to him? He had to make Sherlock talk, at this rate he’d never be able to work anymore. Or live his life normally at all in fact.

 

Eventually, John could feel Sherlock shift, rubbing his temple against John’s shoulder in a manner John could almost call grateful. He opened his mouth, but before John could get a word out, Sherlock cut him off.

 

“I need help, John,” he mumbled into the soft material of John’s jumper. “I can’t- I have to talk about it.”

 

 


	6. Bleeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It wasn’t only the sixteen days in Serbia, it started much earlier. Maybe on the day I was meant to hit the pavement.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I added one chapter still, I kept writing and it just didn't end so... I started uni so I might get the last chapter done soonish or then not so soonish, we'll see.

 

 

Watching Sherlock try to talk was probably one of the most painful things John had experienced, apart from getting shot. Sherlock let out a few sounds, shivered and then went still for a few minutes before trying again. John stopped him after the fifth time, when he heard Sherlock gasp as he stilled.

 

 

“Sherlock? You’re tired, exhausted even. I won’t go anywhere, we can talk after you’ve eaten and rested.” He rubbed his back as he spoke, holding him as the detective heaved in a few deep breaths and then nodded in silent agreement.

 

 

“I can order take-away,” John said quietly, only pulling back when he felt Sherlock nod against his shoulder. Sherlock laid curled up on the sofa as John called the closest Chinese and got the cutlery and glasses ready on the coffee table. John noticed the other man was still clutching the scarf, but his hands had calmed down as he watched, with a distant look in his eyes, as John moved around the living room.

 

 

When the food came, John had to help Sherlock to sit up, tucking a pillow behind his back and wrapping him in the afghan from his chair. Then he fed Sherlock rice and vegetable noodles, helping him with his drink too. If Sherlock felt embarrassed by his own helplessness, he didn’t have the energy to show it and John definitely didn’t care.

 

 

When Sherlock had eaten enough, John took his turn and ate the rest before cleaning up and returning to the sofa, resting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder again. “Now to bed?” John suggested and then helped Sherlock first to the bathroom to brush his teeth and then into his bedroom, looking for a pair of pyjama pants and a t-shirt for him from the drawers. He turned around when he heard Sherlock softly call for him.

 

 

“John?” Sherlock was now looking at him, sitting at the edge of the bed, looking somehow small. John took the clothes and walked closer.

 

 

“I think I... I want you t-to stay,” Sherlock forced out and pulled the afghan he still had closer to his frame. John nodded and offered the pyjamas to him.

 

 

“Alright, can you change while I go get my own pyjamas from upstairs? Of course, I can help you if you want to...” Sherlock shook his head, reaching for the clothes.

 

 

“I’ll change while you get your things,” he mumbled, loosening his grip on the afghan. John regarded him for a few seconds and then nodded. “Alright, I’ll be back in a sec.”

 

 

He got his pajamas and changed into them before brushing his teeth and getting a glass of water for the both of them. Sherlock was in his pajamas already and he had curled up under the duvet. He drank the water, seeming grateful, and then made room for John, who crawled into the bed and settled down facing Sherlock.

 

 

“You okay now?” he asked softly, tucking the duvet more firmly around them both. Sherlock nodded silently and then closed his eyes, yawning a little. John shuffled closer and sighed.

 

 

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” he mumbled, feeling the other man relax a little. They were both asleep in a matter of minutes, sharing body heat under the duvet.

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

John woke up after a few hours as the mattress dipped next to him, and he opened his eyes to see the outline of Sherlock sitting up in the bed, lit up by the streetlamps from the window.

 

 

“Mmm, Sherlock?” he mumbled, laying a hand on his thigh. Sherlock eyes flicked to him and his shoulders hunched forward. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, looking at his lap. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

 

John sat up too and squeezed his thigh gently. “I don’t mind. Is something wrong?”

 

 

Sherlock sighed and lifted his left arm. “I need a plaster, I don’t want to stain the sheets with blood.”

 

 

John became alert immediately, turning the bedside lamp on immediately. There were a few small scratches on Sherlock’s arm and blood was beading slowly to the surface. “Did that happen while you were sleeping?” John asked gently, taking the arm and checking the injuries from up close.

 

 

Sherlock nodded a little and then shrugged, looking tired and resigned. “Well, I was mostly awake, I needed something to ground myself, it’s…”

 

 

John squeezed his hand understandingly and then got up and fetched his med kit. After disinfecting the area and adding a few plasters, he left the kit on the bedside table.

 

 

“Alright, let’s try to get some more sleep,” he said, laying back down and turning the lamp off. Sherlock followed his lead and settled back, a little closer to John now. John laid a hand on his arm, stroking the skin with his thumb until they fell back asleep again.

 

 

In the morning, he could tell Sherlock hadn’t had much sleep. He was already awake when John woke up, and they spent a few hours just laying on the bed, neither talking or moving much.

 

 

Eventually John got up to make breakfast, which they then ate in bed. Sherlock barely lifted his head off his pillow, but John didn’t comment, didn’t rush him when he slowly tore bits off his bread and left a few crumbs on the sheets.

 

 

They spent another while laying down after eating, John’s back propped against the headboard as Sherlock curled up around his legs, blinking tiredly. John could see the plasters on his arm, and that he was fighting the urge to scratch himself more. Instead, Sherlock gripped the duvet like he had done with the scarf.

 

 

John wondered if Sherlock would find holding his hand helpful, but he didn’t want to break the silence yet. Instead, he put one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, stroking his thumb back and forth.

 

 

Sherlock tensed at first, but he relaxed after a while, even his hands calming down a little.

 

 

Encouraged, John moved to Sherlock’s hair, toying with the springy curls and sliding his fingers across his scalp in firm circles. Sherlock relaxed further, and John kept touching his hair until he’d fallen into a light sleep.

 

 

He kept running his fingers through the soft curls as Sherlock slept. He would frown or shift restlessly in his sleep, but a firmer touch to his scalp seemed to help a little. John pursed his lips and watched Sherlock sadly, wondering what was truly going on. He didn’t want to think about it, but it started to seem that whatever Sherlock had done while he was away had changed him, and John didn’t like it. He didn’t like the tight, resigned look on his face, nor the constantly-defensive body language.

 

 

It had taken him a good while to realise it, but Sherlock hadn’t been the same at all when he’d come back. John had been too busy welling in his own hurt and the feeling of betrayal to notice that the relaxed, charming-in-his-own-way Sherlock had been replaced with someone who liked to pretend there was no iceberg beneath the surface anymore even though they both knew better.

 

 

He was tiptoeing around John, always careful not to do anything too risky. The old Sherlock always did what he liked, and since John had never minded his odd ways and rudeness, it hurt that Sherlock didn’t trust him to be himself around him anymore.

 

 

John had noticed the way Sherlock had started to watch his surroundings after the knife-in-the-alley situation – if not before it already. It wasn’t the alert Sherlockian way, but like he was expecting to be mugged at any time. He was wound tight like a spring, not putting his hands deep into his pockets in public, drawing his elbows close to his sides every time he rounded a corner, but he’d masked it and John had let it go.

 

 

Even when he’d found a pocketknife in one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns, he’d just taken the knife and said nothing. There was something he’d noticed right after the knife-in-the-alley incident, but he’d just pushed it away, decided to just bring it up later. He was an awful person, and an even worse doctor to let this go so far.

 

 

As if sensing John’s darkening thoughts, Sherlock got restless again and then jerked awake. John hummed and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

 

“It’s past noon, you slept for almost an hour,” he mumbled, not knowing what else to say. Sherlock hummed and curled up on his side, looking at John.

 

 

They both stayed silent for a while, until Sherlock slowly, with caution, pulled the duvet up a little in a silent invitation. John slid down to lay in his back, next to Sherlock’s curled up body, settling the duvet on top of them both.

 

 

Another while went by in silence, until Sherlock took a breath and slowly let it out.

 

 

“It wasn’t only the sixteen days in Serbia, it started much earlier. Maybe on the day I was meant to hit the pavement.”

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

To Sherlock’s relief, once he’d started he didn’t have to pause to gasp for air or to drag himself back to the moment with his nails. He told John where he’d been, what he’d done. Then he moved to the thing that really mattered, what he’d experienced and how he’d felt. He knew he sounded distant and detached but he couldn’t help it. Besides, John would most likely understand, Sherlock told himself.

 

 

He told John about the cold nights under the stars, how he’d used whatever he could as a shelter from the elements. He told about the cold nights under a roof that wasn’t friendly, and how he usually didn’t sleep indoors from his own free will. After he'd supposedly killed himself, Sherlock had stayed in London for one night only and after that it had been a daily struggle to hide and still find a place to sleep for every night.

 

 

He told John about the time he’d severely sprained his ankle and shrugged it off with a makeshift brace, made of a cardboard box, and a scolding call from Mycroft.

 

 

How that had been the only time he’d directly heard from his brother until Mycroft came to take him home.

 

 

He told John about the lonely days that turned into lonely weeks and then months. Long periods of time when he couldn’t trust anyone, not even his brother’s own people.

 

 

He told John about the stab wound he’d gotten for trusting the wrong person. But when it came to Serbia, he left the details out. After all, they were all just injuries, mostly nothing that left any permanent handicaps except for the thick scar tissue.

 

 

So, John didn’t need to know. Sherlock had already shared quite enough, soon he’d be writhing on the floor if he kept going and –

 

 

Except he couldn’t stop himself from saying it. He heard himself mention the cigarette burns, the acid burns on his calves and the carved words on his back, now hidden by the whip marks. He told John about the rib that never healed fully and still hurts when he becomes breathless, and the time they’d dislocated his shoulder and how it might get dislocated every time he puts too much pressure on it now.

 

 

And Sherlock could hear his own voice get strangled and shaky as he tried to keep going. He took a few moments to just breathe, blinking rapidly and avoiding John’s gaze as the doctor watched him.

 

 

John was patient. He laid there, gaze fixed on the ceiling as he hummed encouragingly when Sherlock’s voice cracked and touched gently when Sherlock needed to bite his lip until it bled.

 

 

Finally, Sherlock was done, and they laid there in silence. He could feel the uneasy feeling creeping up, and he turned to look at John. “I don’t think I can just keep thinking I’m okay,” he admitted quietly. “It’s coming, even now, and I can’t stop… When I was… _there_ , I just wanted to see you, to talk to you, thinking it’d somehow help. I almost gave up and texted you, so many times. I should’ve just done it.”

 

 

He took a shaky breath, his hands now gripping the duvet.

 

 

"I did send you texts, you know? Naturally, I thought you'd never receive them, but it took something off my shoulders,” John said softly, laying his hands on top of Sherlock’s.

 

 

"I didn't. Receive them, I mean," Sherlock mumbled shaking his head.

 

 

John just looked at him, clearly unsure if he should be surprised or not. Well, Sherlock had been pretending to be dead, he couldn’t just open his phone or email in case someone would find out. And now he was back, and even though he could read John’s messages now it probably didn’t matter anymore.

 

 

"I - I broke my phone there at the roof, when I tossed it to the concrete. I couldn't go back to fetch it, and when Mycroft did, I... I kept the sim, of course, but it wasn't... I couldn't- and now..."

 

 

The smell of blood had been overwhelming. It hadn't even crossed his mind that Moriarty could kill himself, and after it had happened, Sherlock had still had to wait for John to arrive. Seven hellishly long minutes, blood spreading and pooling...

 

 

"It's fine - Sherlock?"

 

 

His answer got caught in his throat, full body shivers taking over instead as the panic attack – it had to be that – started to cloud his mind. He wanted to take hold of John's hands, but he knew he'd only end up hurting the doctor, so he dug his nails onto his own arms.

 

 

All he could see was blood everywhere. The drying blood on the concrete, his own bloody hands trying to cling on as he climbed to safety, the blood he’d spit up. He realised he’d started coughing desperately at the mere memory, tasting blood as he gasped for breath.

 

 

But he couldn’t stay here. Even if they gave up on finding him, the night would be freezing and he’d left everything behind. However hard he tried, he could barely lift his head as he slumped to the ground, his side aching as his eyes slipped shut against his will.

 

 


	7. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It felt like they had formed a bubble, just the two of them. Even when John had seen the scars, Sherlock hadn’t felt like it’d be the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-bwChGwzL7U) some music to go with this piece.  
>  Finally, it's finished!  
> We'll see what will happen, I'm kind of thinking about making this a series with shorter recovery snippets, but we'll see, we'll see...

 

 

John stayed with Sherlock through his panic attack, trying to keep him from hurting himself as he hyperventilated and trembled on the bed. When he tried to scratch his arms again, John peeled the pillowcase from one pillow and got Sherlock to clench his fingers in it. He would probably never forget the way Sherlock had dug his nails in his skin at the tube station, collapsed on the bench under the blinking emergency exit sign.

 

 

He tried very hard not to think about what Sherlock had told him. He’d be angry, even furious about what they’d done to Sherlock, but that had to come later, he couldn’t let himself dwell on it now. Sherlock needed to rest, and so John pushed the thoughts aside, keeping himself relaxed against the taller man.

 

 

Instead of calming down when his attack seemed to pass, Sherlock started crying hysterically again. John thought it must’ve been a natural reaction for Sherlock in this situation, so he didn’t try to stop it. He just held the brunet and ignored the painful grip Sherlock had on his forearms.

 

 

It took almost three hours, but finally Sherlock’s sobs calmed down and he fell asleep, curled up against John’s chest. John was surprised how little it bothered him to hold Sherlock through this all, and how easy it was to hug him close and listen to his slow breaths.

 

 

If the situation had been different, he would’ve enjoyed the closeness much more and hugged Sherlock tighter, but now he just focused on comforting the sleeping figure in his arms, helping him to sleep a little longer.

 

 

Soon John started to feel sleepy too, comforted by Sherlock’s warm presence and now finally relaxed form next to him. He yawned, pulled the duvet higher on top of them and promptly fell asleep as well.

 

 

He woke up feeling warm and safe and it took him a few moments to realise Sherlock was wrapped around him, nuzzling John’s chest in his sleep. The room was dim, and a glance at the bedside clock told John it was late in the evening. He breathed in deeply and pushed back against Sherlock, more than willing to enjoy this sudden moment of calmness.

 

 

They’d have to wake up and eat something soon, John thought, but he didn’t want to bother Sherlock’s sleep yet. Instead, he closed his eyes and drifted in and out of sleep for a while longer, only becoming alert when Sherlock’s body shifted next to his. The detective stretched, rubbing his cheek against John’s shoulder in a way John found absolutely adorable.

 

 

“Hi,” he mumbled into the man’s dark curls, staying relaxed against him. Sherlock, instead, tensed a little and pulled his head back to look at John, seeming a little startled. He looked at John wordlessly, as if looking for something as his gaze flicked between John’s eyes, until he relaxed and settled back.

 

 

“We should eat something, and then probably clean up before bed,” John said gently, retreating from Sherlock’s personal space a little. Sherlock just looked at him and then nodded.

 

 

John had to admit that it felt weird to have Sherlock agreeing to do what John suggested without protesting or complaining. He put a mug of heavily honeyed chamomile tea and a plate of toast and fried eggs in front of Sherlock and the man only glanced at him and started to eat. John just watched over his own plate as Sherlock ate silently and then even asked for one more slice of toast after emptying his plate.

 

 

“I’d like to take a bath now,” Sherlock mumbled when he had finished his toast and tea.

 

 

“Of course,” John nodded and started to clean the dishes while Sherlock went to the bathroom. John could hear the water running as the tub filled and then sloshing when Sherlock got in the tub. While he waited, John filled two bottles with water and took them to the bedroom. As he got back to the bed, he had a feeling they’d spend a good while just lying there. And he was fine with it, he realised, almost surprised.

 

 

After twenty minutes or so, Sherlock finished his bath. John could hear him slosh the water a little and then let it out. A few minutes later he walked into the bedroom, wearing only his pyjama pants and the towel wrapped around his shoulders. He froze on the doorway, clearly debating silently before he stepped further into the room and headed for his drawers.

 

 

When Sherlock dropped the towel to the back of a chair, John was about to divert his eyes out of modestly but something about Sherlock’s back caught his attention. The skin was covered in angry red marks, with a few older scars already fading to white.

 

 

Almost automatically, John got up from the bed, walking up to Sherlock slowly. He could see Sherlock tensing up when he heard John approach, and he gave the other man a second to retreat if he needed to before laying a hand on his unscarred shoulder. He knew about the scars, Sherlock had told him, but seeing them like _this_ …

 

 

He didn’t say anything – honestly, he didn’t think there was anything he could say that would be more helpful than not at the moment – but slid his hand down his shoulder and arm, stepping closer. His other hand lifted to touch one of the older marks, his touch feather-light and before he knew it, he had pressed his forehead against the nape of Sherlock’s neck. He stayed like that for a while, holding Sherlock’s arm and tracking the older scars slowly, breathing heavily.

 

 

Sherlock shivered at one point as John’s breath touched his upper back, breaking the trance-like moment. John took a step back and waited until Sherlock had pulled on a fresh t-shirt before heading to the bed again.

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

It felt like they had formed a bubble, just the two of them. Even when John had seen the scars, Sherlock hadn’t felt like it’d be the end of the world. Instead, he could trust John with it, and he could also trust that no one else would come and interrupt, to take this moment away from them.

 

 

He crawled back to bed after John, breathing freely for a change. He wrapped one side the duvet around himself, leaving the other half free for John as the doctor settled down next to him.

 

 

Feeling brave, Sherlock laid his head on John’s shoulder, relaxing and closing his eyes as John’s hand found its way back into Sherlock’s curls.

 

 

They laid like that for another long while, this time much calmer and less exhausted. Sherlock found his head buzzing with pleasant feelings and sensations instead of the half-repressed memories and unpleasant thoughts, even after being reminded of the scars so blatantly.

 

 

Instead of having to force himself to go there, Sherlock’s focus slipped into his mind palace almost on its own. He could feel the remnants from the panic attacks still swirling around in there, but it was like someone had opened all the windows and swiped most the bad stuff out.

 

 

Sherlock almost smiled to himself as he walked into the first room, starting to fix the place. He left the more unpleasant places as they were, deciding it was alright to leave them be for now. Maybe he could live with the memories there, or then he’d fix them when he needed the rooms again.

 

 

Most of the changes he did happened in John’s rooms. Sherlock wanted to rearrange the data there since he had only stuffed things there for quite a long while without indulging himself in sorting them out. Adding a room for his positive experiences to next door also felt appropriate, especially since John was the main reason he even had most of them.

 

 

When he was satisfied, he opened his eyes to find John smiling down at him, his fingers still running through his curls. Sherlock gave a small smile in return, sighing a little. They stayed silent for a while until Sherlock spoke up.

 

 

“I know you’ll probably want to talk about the scars, but I’ve told you all there is to know about them,” he started tentatively, now lowering his gaze to the pillow. “I’d prefer to just let them be.”

 

 

“Alright, that’s fine by me. You’ll tell me if you want to bring it up again,” John nodded. Sherlock glanced at him, a little startled, but then he realised John knew what it was like to live with scars.

 

 

It was quite late already, so it only took a few minutes for them both to fall asleep, still cuddled close to each other.

 

 

Sherlock woke up several times during the night but for once it wasn’t because of nightmares, he just woke up and spent a moment marvelling the calming effect John was having on him before falling back asleep. He didn’t exactly feel well-rested in the morning, but the calmness in his head made up for it.

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

They stayed in bed the whole next day, John only getting up a few times to make breakfast and then pay for the takeaway they had for dinner and lunch. They were mostly silent, but every now and then Sherlock would mention a thought or a memory and they’d talk about it a little before falling silent again.

 

 

On the third day of their bedroom retreat, Sherlock decided to solve a case from bed. He found a few easy ones via John’s blog and realised that people were getting worried since John hadn’t updated his blog in a few weeks now.

 

 

“Well, we haven’t done anything that I could write to the public, have we?” John asked, now sitting with his back against the headboard, mirroring Sherlock’s position. Sherlock had to agree.

 

 

The most surprising thing was probably that Sherlock had forgotten to plug in his phone, and it had run out of battery by now. When he plugged it in again, he realised he had a few calls and messages from Lestrade. He decided to reply later, instead settling back to the bed.

 

 

They talked about the Work for the rest of that day. Sherlock told John more about the incident at the alley and then at the tube station. He told John about his fears that he could never work properly again, how he might get panicked every time he got too high on adrenaline. Or that he’d lose it whenever he would hear someone speak Russian or other similar languages, which was what had happened that day at the tube station.

 

 

Before they cleaned up for the night, John assured him that they’d figure it out, slowly but surely, and Sherlock really wanted to believe him.

 

 

He solved a few more cases via email the next morning and then Sherlock decided to take one of the easier cases Lestrade was offering him, since he could solve it mostly from the flat. They finally got up and out of the bed and flat in the afternoon to visit the NSY together, Sherlock getting a few blood samples to study for the case and John exchanging a few words with Lestrade. Sherlock trusted that John wouldn’t tell him anything, but he still felt a little tug of worry on the bottom of his stomach that only dissipated when Lestrade acted completely normal as they left the Yard.

 

 

Their unspoken agreement to sleep in the same bed seemed to continue even after they started spending time outside of the bed. John had gone to bed earlier while Sherlock examined the blood samples until two in the morning, but Sherlock only realised John hadn’t gone to his bedroom upstairs when he walked into his bedroom and found John in his bed, already asleep.

 

 

Surprisingly, Sherlock was alright with it. He just changed into his pyjamas before carefully laying down next to John and falling asleep.

 

 

They started to get out of the flat more often during the next few days, visiting the Yard a few times with other easy cases and doing a trip to Tesco’s. John seemed surprised that Sherlock agreed to come grocery shopping with him, but Sherlock just rolled his eyes a little, mumbling “let’s just go” and pushing John out of the flat.

 

 

It was refreshing to just roam the aisles and watch as John tried to decide between the many different brands of black tea. It was boring, of course, but he understood the need to take it easy first, before he took any cases that would include serious adrenaline-inducing moments.

 

 

So, he watched John struggle first with the teabags and then with the breads, wearing a small, private smile on his face.

 

 

 

\---

 

 

 

After a week of working mostly from home, there was an interesting case of stolen identities and a moderately violent house burglary that Sherlock just had to take. John thought about it, but Sherlock did seem to feel much better after resting and eating properly. When it came to tracking the potentially violent culprit down, he talked to John about it, about his fears and memories – something he would’ve never done before – before he seemed to feel confident enough.

 

 

They had a light snack, put on their coats and made sure both of them had zip ties with them before they left the flat to get the thief. John had to admit he’d started to miss this, hunting down criminals with Sherlock. He’d just have to make sure Sherlock wouldn’t overdo it and they’d be fine.

 

 

After only twenty minutes of waiting, they caught a glimpse of who seemed to be the suspect they’re after. But as if sensing something was wrong, the thief turned around and sprinted.

 

 

They got up in a matter of seconds, running after him. Sherlock apparently had a clue where the thief might’ve been heading to as they ran through the streets. After what must’ve been at least five minutes, John was getting breathless, falling a little behind. They turned into a small, narrow road and managed to finally see the suspect, before he darted to another street.

 

 

But Sherlock drew to a stop before they could continue the pursuit. The detective put his hands on his knees and just breathed. John jogged to his side, worried.

 

 

“Sherlock. Are you okay? Is it happening again?”

 

 

Sherlock stood up straight and John could see that he was now smiling. He could feel his own face making a confused lopsided smile as Sherlock smirked at him before lifting his face to the sky and letting out a deep breath.

 

 

“No, it didn't get me... I’m here,” he mumbled, glancing at John. “Got your breath back?”

 

 

John breathed out a relieved laugh.

 

 

“Ready when you are.”

 

 


End file.
